


First Time

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Asexual Character, Bisexual Character, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, First Time, Intercrural Sex, M/M, References to Homophobia, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You like a dare, don’t you Colonel?”</p><p>Moran, drink in hand, only laughs and says, “Depends on the dare, sir.”</p><p>“I think you might like this one.” Moriarty leans forward in his chair a little, studying Moran’s face intently.</p><p> “Oh?”</p><p> “I dare you to come to my bed.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Time

    Moran is still on the right side of the line between pleasantly tipsy and completely sozzled, so when Moriarty says, in such an innocuous-sounding tone, “You like a dare, don’t you Colonel?”

    Moran, drink in hand, only laughs and says, “Depends on the dare, sir.”

    “I think you might like this one.” Moriarty leans forward in his chair a little, studying Moran’s face intently.

    “Oh?”

    “I dare you to come to my bed.”

    The amusement dissipates from Moran’s expression at once. “To your…?”

    “To my bed.”

    “For what purpose?” Moran asks, convinced that this cannot possibly mean what he thinks it means – isn’t Moriarty like some bloody monk? Not even merely celibate but completely oblivious to the usual human desires and needs? Though it is not religion but schemes and sums that seem to occupy his whole attention.

   “Why do men usually go to bed, Colonel? Either for sleep or for copulation.”

   “And, er…” Moran clears his throat. “Which purpose were you… er…?”

   “I am not tired,” Moriarty replies, his voice pregnant with meaning, his gaze meeting Moran’s without wavering.

   Moran unconsciously bites his lower lip as he ponders this.

   “You are an invert, Colonel.”

   “Not an invert sir – not entirely, at any rate.”

   “Yes, I forgot, you still enjoy the company of the fairer sex. Still, you also very much enjoy the _intimate_ company of men too.”

    Moran blushes and looks down at his feet. “Yes sir, I suppose… yes I do.” It’s not that he’s ashamed of his own _unnatural_ desires, but he’s had to keep them secret so often, and if Moriarty ever did take offense at Moran’s habits then Moran has everything to lose. He does admire and trust the professor now, but still… still there’s the lingering thought that Moriarty is only trying to trap him, plying him with drink until he lets his guard down just enough to be more open, then snapping shut the trap when Moran has admitted that yes, he’s an invert; a filthy sodomite; that he truly is the disgusting depraved creature his father always told him he was.

   Moriarty gets to his feet, stepping forward a couple of paces before he beckons to Moran to stand also. Moran, face still flushed, glances up at him, before setting down his glass. He rises and moves to stand before the professor, regarding him warily.

   “What about you, sir?” he dares to ask, because he _has_ to ask, even if this does prove to be a trap; even if Moriarty reacts badly to such questioning. “Do you… enjoy the intimate company of men also?”

   Moriarty’s initial response is a thin, tight smile; his second a short laugh. “Not especially. There have been a few… experiments. I would not necessarily call them particularly ‘enjoyable’ however; merely a way to relieve certain… _biological urges._ ”

   “Then why…?” Moran, truly puzzled now, looks Moriarty full in the face for a moment.

   “I suppose…” Moriarty puts his hands on Moran’s shoulders, in doing so succeeding in drawing Moran a little closer. He feels Moran tense momentarily under his touch. “I suppose I am curious to know whether the experience would be more enjoyable with someone whose company I value.”

   Moran hesitates for a moment. Of course he has started to suspect from Moriarty’s not infrequent invitations to come and have a nightcap with him that the professor rather likes his company. To have such a thing confirmed though… it’s unexpected, and touching. “And if I decline this ‘dare’?” he queries. “Then what?”

   “Then… nothing. I am not a beast, Moran. You are my chief of staff and my top assassin; that is what I employed you for and what you _must_ do for me. Anything else though is up to you; you are not under any obligation to do anything more private if you don’t wish it and if you decline this now then my regard for you will not change.  However…” He shifts closer, lifting his hand to run it gently across Moran’s cheek. “I had assumed from the glances you have continually been casting in my direction for some weeks now that you might want this very much.”

   Moran smiles grimly, annoyed with himself at being caught out. So the professor has noticed the looks (well, some of them at least; this has in fact been going on for many months not merely weeks) he’s been giving him then, what he had thought were subtle glances at the professor’s hands or mouth or backside. He’d tried not to but he couldn’t help it, any more than he can help thoughts of Moriarty sneaking in to the fantasies he’s had when he touches himself at nights, imagining not, as would be more usual in Moran’s private thoughts, himself penetrating the professor, but the professor taking him, roughly forcing him down, sliding inside him, making him writhe and moan like some wanton slut. Afterwards he always feels slightly ashamed of these thoughts and questions what on earth has got into him, yet he has been unable to escape the realisation that these recurring fantasies of being subjugated and sodomised by the professor have been giving him some of the most intense orgasms he’s had in a very long time. 

   “Well?” Moriarty moves towards the door and stands there, regarding Moran with one eyebrow arched. “Are you coming?”

   Moran looks over at him, trying to make sense of all the conflicting thoughts running through his brain in this instant. “Yes sir,” he says. “I’m coming.”

~

   It’s pleasantly warm in the professor’s bedroom, with a fire going in the small hearth and the light from that and from a lamp makes the lighting pleasant, creating warm pools of light and soft half-shadows. In this light Moran can see the items laid out in preparation for this, the clean towels folded up on the bed, and the vial of oil on the nightstand. He notes them with a wry smile. Of course, he thinks, Moriarty would have these ready; of course the professor knew that Moran would not refuse him.

   “Strip,” Moriarty instructs, when they are safely ensconced in the bedroom, the door locked, the curtains drawn. Such a softly-spoken command but lined with steel.

   Moran hesitates, wondering why this is suddenly so humiliating. He’s been naked in front of countless people before and he does yearn for the professor. But this is so strange; so unexpected. Nothing else about Moriarty matches his claim that he wants to see Moran naked; that he wants to couple with him. There are none of the usual signals to indicate that he truly desires Moran, and it makes Moran feel like a specimen in a laboratory.

    He does not want to disobey Moriarty though. He shrugs off his jacket, setting it down on the chair, folded as neatly as he can manage. His waistcoat comes off next, then he tugs his tie undone, then slips his braces off his shoulders and begins to unbutton his shirt, yanking at the buttons.

   “Steady, Colonel.” Moriarty puts a hand on his momentarily, feeling how Moran’s trembles. “There is no rush.”

   “Sir, I…” Moran cannot look him in the face now, still not understanding this. Moriarty’s tone is demanding but not unkind and the situation is all the more puzzling for that. “I’m not sure…”

   “Moran.” Moriarty lightly brushes Moran’s cheek with his knuckles, just for the briefest moment. “If you don’t wish to do this…”

   “I do, Professor.”

   “You are under no obligation to continue.”

   “I want to, sir.”

   “Very well.” Moriarty steps back and continues to regard him from a greater distance, yet his blue-grey eyes seem to miss nothing as Moran removes his shirt with greater care now. His trousers come next, although Moran falters after he has unbuttoned them. The reason for his further hesitancy is becoming increasingly apparent and is starkly revealed when he finally grits his teeth and slips his trousers down: his prick is half-hard already and stiffening by the moment under the professor’s scrutiny. “My dear colonel.” Moriarty chuckles, and relishes how Moran’s face flushes crimson in response. “Well?” the professor says, when Moran pauses again. “Off with the rest of it, unless you have changed your mind?”

   “No sir.” Moran swallows and hurriedly pulls off his undershirt, then his stockings, and then, finally, his drawers. He keeps his head bowed, his face still deeply flushed, and tries to retain at least some modesty by crossing his hands over his groin.

   “Hands to the sides, Colonel,” Moriarty instructs sharply, and steps forward to inspect his companion more thoroughly. “And cease slouching like a sack of potatoes, I expected better of an army man. Kindly stand up straight.”

    Moran lifts his head up but still keeps his eyes lowered as the professor seems to examine every inch of his body, sometimes merely looking, sometimes running his fingertips lightly over his skin. His hands are cool and Moran has to will himself not to flinch away from every touch. All the while his prick stands up stiffly between his legs, although Moriarty seems to pay it little heed for now.

   “You really are a magnificent specimen, Moran,” he tells him, running his hand lightly down Moran’s back. When he reaches his buttocks he gives one a light slap, and Moran starts and almost stumbles forward. “Yes, most magnificent.”

    Moran blushes even more deeply, though perhaps not solely with humiliation now; perhaps there is the tiniest element of pleased surprise there too. He knows he’s a decent-enough looking fellow, lean but muscular, scarred but not in a manner that detracts from his appeal, endowed well enough where it matters, and that even though he’s not as young as he once was, he’s ageing better than many men. But that is what he thinks of himself, or what other people have told him. This is different; this is the _professor_ telling him this.

    Moriarty stands in front of Moran now, so close that Moran’s stiff manhood presses against his thigh, although he seems not to care about this. He cups Moran’s chin gently and tilts his head up just slightly.

   “Look at me,” he says, and Moran cannot disobey. He opens his eyelids fully and meets the professor’s gaze. Moriarty says nothing more as he brushes a thumb lightly across Moran’s cheekbone, gazing deeply into Moran’s eyes.

   Moran looks back at him still with that slight perpetual wariness, still rather puzzled, but his pupils are dilated and his breathing has changed, become less steady. When Moriarty puts one hand to Moran’s chest he can feel the colonel’s heart beating fast beneath his palm.

   Moriarty relinquishes his hold on Moran’s face and runs his hand down the colonel’s throat, feeling how he swallows thickly as the professor looks down at Moran’s jutting erection.

   “Yes, indeed Moran, you truly _are_ magnificent.” Moriarty touches Moran’s hot, hard length with a confidence that Moran somehow finds surprising, and Moran gasps loudly – a sound that seems thoroughly obscene in the quiet room. “A virile beast; my proud, strong tiger.” Moriarty cups Moran’s testicles in his palm, seeming to assess their weight and size.

   “Professor!” Moran blurts out suddenly, unable to bear it any more. Moriarty’s face is so close to his as he feels between Moran’s legs and he wants nothing more than to kiss Moriarty’s mouth; to feel the professor’s lips on his, and their tongues meeting.

   “Shhh.” Moriarty gives his balls a squeeze, not hard, but enough to remind Moran of his place. “Stand still, my tiger.” He backs away from Moran and Moran almost whimpers at his retreat, more confused than ever by the proceedings. “Patience, Colonel.”

   Moran blinks and tries to compose himself. “Right sir.”

    Moriarty carefully folds his jacket and puts it down on the chair, on top of Moran’s clothing. “Do you still wish to proceed?”

   “Yes sir.”

   “You don’t have to call me ‘sir’, Moran, not here.” After removing his waistcoat, Moriarty undoes his tie and collar, watching Moran steadily still.

   Moran looks down at his bare toes. “I’d… I think I’d rather, if you don’t mind.”

   Moriarty gives a slight shrug as he undoes his cuffs. “If you are more comfortable with that, then by all means…” He is still watching Moran as he sits down to remove his boots and socks. “Look at you, Moran, you look like a virginal bride on her wedding night.”

   Moran colours an even deeper shade of scarlet.

   “Aside from one or two obvious differences, of course.” Moriarty smirks as he gives Moran’s arousal a meaningful look.

   “Professor!”

   “Oh come now, Colonel, I doubt you of all men are ashamed of _that_.”

   But Moran does feel oddly ashamed of his own indecency and his own arousal. It seems so incongruous in the face of the professor’s unwavering calm. “I just… Could we just… get on with this, please sir?”

   “Very well. Come here.” Moriarty, barefoot now, stands up and beckons the colonel towards him. “Closer, that’s it.”

   Moran wonders if Moriarty intends to give verbal instructions for every step but, no, the professor now gives him a nod by which Moran understands Moriarty is requesting that he assist him in undoing his trousers. He does so, working the buttons free, his hands brushing over Moriarty’s groin. “You’re not…” He swallows thickly again, then raises his eyes to meet Moriarty’s questioningly. “Sir, you’re not… _hard_.”

   “I told you, patience.” Moriarty shrugs himself out of his braces and with Moran’s assistance works himself out of his trousers, leaving him standing there in just his shirt and underclothes. His drawers come off next but when Moran moves to unbutton the shirt further though Moriarty gently catches his hands and draws them down. “Leave it,” he says softly.

   “But-”

   “I’d prefer to leave it on.”

   “Of course.”

   Moriarty takes him by the arm and leads him over to the bed, although just as Moran is wondering how they are going to play this Moriarty pulls away from him and picks up one of the towels. Moran watches him spread it out over the bedsheets and can’t suppress a slight snort.

   “What?” Moriarty enquires pointedly.

   “Nothing, it’s very practical, I just… don’t normally bother with that sort of thing.”

   “Well you and I are different men, Moran.”

   Which has already become extremely obvious to Moran, a man who approaches sex usually with heat and passion and desperation and frequently with very little preparation at all (and certainly never much thought for how to make it less… _messy_ ). But it seems that Moriarty is as methodical and precise about sex as he is about most other matters, and this realisation does not come as a surprise to him. Actually it’s rather endearing.

   “Here.” Moriarty nudges him backwards against the bed, until Moran’s legs hit the side of the bedstead and he is obliged to lie back upon it. Moriarty presses him down, gently but firmly turning Moran onto his side, his head on the pillow, his lower body resting on the towel. Moran glances over his shoulder at him questioningly as Moriarty settles himself behind Moran. So close, Moran thinks. If he twisted his head around now he could kiss him still, but he senses that this move would not be welcome; that the professor, for whatever reason, must dislike kissing.

   He presses his cheek against the pillow and tries to focus on all the sensations – the warmth of Moriarty against him; the friction of his shirt against Moran’s bare skin; the professor’s still cool hand against his hip; his breath against the back of Moran’s neck. Then there is the chink of the stopper in the bottle as Moriarty takes the oil from the nightstand and slicks his fingers with it.

   Moran cannot help drawing in a sharp breath as Moriarty slips his oiled hand between Moran's legs, tensing in uneasy anticipation of having his body breached. He has been penetrated before and though some instances were more uncomfortable than pleasurable, he is not frightened of the act precisely, but he is uneasy about what is signifies. Yet after a few seconds he realises that this is not proceeding as he had thought it would. Moriarty’s fingers are not spreading the oil up between his buttocks but between his thighs. 

   “Professor?” he says and he glances over his shoulder, seeing Moriarty smile back at him. He could swear the man is relishing his confusion.

   “You are familiar, I take it, with intercrural sex, Moran?” Moriarty asks. “The insertion of the male organ between the thighs of one’s partner?”

   Moran cannot suppress a wry smile, both at Moriarty’s questioning and at some of the memories the words suddenly conjure up. “That’s _schoolboy_ sex, sir. Christ.” He laughs, and suddenly the tension in his chest eases with that surge of amusement. “I haven’t done it that way in _years_.”

   “Then perhaps you might like to reacquaint yourself with it?” Moriarty reaches down and begins to stroke himself with his oily hand.

   “If you like.” Although Moran does hope he’s not going to be left to have to finish himself off; the act does seem to be one that’s going to be more fun for Moriarty than it will be for him. Still…

   He thinks he might have that wrong after all when Moriarty settles behind him again, spooning against him, and gently slips his now hard length between the tops of Moran’s thighs. When Moriarty reaches around in front of him and puts his hand on Moran’s own stiff length it seems to complete things, closing the circle, making Moran feel warm, secure, and immensely turned on by this. He gasps when Moriarty strokes him in time with his own slow slides between those warm, slippery thighs, and breathes in sharply when Moriarty nips the back of his neck, not hard, teeth indenting the skin but not even trying to break it, the act suggestive that he’s claiming Moran as his own somehow, but not trying to harm him.

   Even the gentle friction of the professor’s prick against Moran’s inner thighs and his balls is exquisite. Between that and Moriarty’s hand caressing his cock, Moran realises that instead of fearing he will have to bring himself off afterwards, he perhaps should be more concerned that he’s going to finish well before Moriarty. He has one hand slipped beneath the pillow, gripping its underside hard; the other fists into the sheets with each thrust between his legs and stroke of his cock.

   “ _Professor_ ,” he breathes, and there’s a part of him – the reckless part, or maybe just the more open part of him - that even now wants to call out, ‘ _James!’_ He twists his face sideways and presses it tightly into the pillow, smothering his gasps of pleasure along with the urge to call the professor by his Christian name. He does not remember any of his schoolboys’ private games being quite like this, with such a sense of being controlled and dominated but also held so safely in his lover’s arms; a feeling of being _cherished_ , and where he has felt such an intense surge of emotion of a kind he cannot entirely place but he has the strongest suspicion that maybe it’s… _love_?

   It’s slower than Moran’s used to, his past fucks mostly being of the fast and furious kind. Moriarty said to him about patience and maybe he’s used to these slow, careful sexual encounters but it’s a long time since Moran had anything like that. He doesn’t want to climax well ahead of the professor, that would seem inappropriate somehow, but he can’t help his own body’s urges, and he can’t hold off this need to spend for much longer. He tries to clamp his thighs together more tightly, and hears Moriarty let out a low moan at the additional friction this creates for him.

   “Professor,” Moran says at last, when his breath is ragged, fast. Behind him, against him, Moriarty’s thrusts have sped up and his rhythm is becoming more disjointed. His hand on Moran’s cock too is now much less sure. “Professor, I’m going to… I’m gonna…”

  “Hold on,” Moriarty says. An instruction, a demand, Moran cannot think clearly enough any more to know which it is, nor does he care either. “Hold on, Moran, just a few more…” His movements now are jerkier, desperate even, and his voice, initially strained, trails off into nothing. Two more thrusts and then he goes utterly still, tensing up, and he comes with a shudder, stifling his cry by biting down on the back of Moran’s neck again.

   Moran feels the sudden flood of wetness as the professor spends and that’s it, that’s enough for him, the sensation of his master’s (no, his _lover’s_ ) release spilling between his thighs seeming somehow so unbearably erotic that he too comes, his cock pulsing in Moriarty’s hand and spurting onto the towel beneath them.

   They lie there for two, three minutes, silent and still, neither of them knowing what to say, Moriarty still spooning against Moran, his shirt and undershirt sticking to his back with sweat now, his arm draped over Moran’s side. The room reeks of sex, which is not an especially pleasant scent to the professor’s nose. Still, despite the smell, despite the unpleasantness of the sweat and the sperm, there is still something good about this, Moriarty thinks, lying here feeling physically sated, very nicely exhausted.

    “Are you disappointed, Sebastian?” he asks finally.

    “With what?”

   “That we didn’t do this in the way you are more used to now?” Moriarty traces his fingers over Moran’s hip, following the line of a faint scar there.

   Moran shrugs and yawns. “It’s fine,” he answers with his eyes closed. He too feels pleasingly drained by this, about ready to fall asleep – hardly his usual behaviour after a fuck.

   “We could of course try it that way another time,” Moriarty says into his ear.

    Moran opens his eyes. _Another time?_

   “You surely did not assume that this will merely be a one-time occurrence?” Moriarty asks, reading volumes from Moran’s silence and sudden brief tension. “I had hoped, Colonel, that I would be different somehow to all your other brief _dalliances_.”

    “You are, Professor.” Moran hesitates. “I just… I weren’t sure that’s what _you_ wanted.” Which is absolutely true. After Moriarty’s words of earlier, Moran wasn’t sure at all that the professor would find this experience truly enjoyable, or that he was going to decide he’d want to do anything even remotely like this again. Moriarty is so unreadable and approached the sex in such an oddly detached sort of way that Moran thought, or feared, that this might just have been a one-time experiment to the professor, never to be repeated.

   “Yes, it is what I want.” Moriarty is still so close to him that his lips brush the back of Moran’s neck when he speaks. “If _you_ want it.”

   Moran feels a soft pang, part almost-pain, part pleasure, in his chest. Admitting that yes, he wants the same seems almost too much to him, almost like - god forbid - a declaration of love. He should do what he almost always does and leave now, run away before it’s too late, but then, he knows, it’s already too late isn’t it? It was too late _long_ before Moriarty brought Moran to his bed, and now that has happened Moran is not fool enough to throw away this chance for something more from the man he’s come to… what? Idolise? Worship? Adore? All of them, maybe.

   “Yes,” he says, and with his face still half-pressed into the pillow he smiles, a crooked but genuinely pleased smile. “I do want that too.” __  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Another story from my 'deleted scenes' file (put there because it doesn't really fit anywhere in my main headcanon).


End file.
